


The sea and wind and open air

by HeirloomTurnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Brotp, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, World War Two, unplanned peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:36:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeirloomTurnip/pseuds/HeirloomTurnip
Summary: Honestly, Miles isn’t terribly surprised when he and Julian get themselves stuck in a holosuite re-enacting the evacuation of Dunkirk.Miles is surprised when Julian’s plane gets shot down near the sub he’s manning, and he has to pull his friend out of the wreckage.





	The sea and wind and open air

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place somewhere in season 5 or 6– the Dominion is becoming more of a threat but it’s not that relevant to this fic.

It's typical, really, that Julian would drag O'Brien into an untested holosuite adventure Quark got off of a shady "Historical Trader" for less than ten strips of latinum. It's typical, too, that the program would have something terribly wrong with it, including broken safeties. It's really quite usual that Julian would get himself half-blown up while drowning in the bloody English Channel during the evacuation of Dunkirk. 

While this is all something rather idiotic that O'Brien had a vague notion would happen one day, he didn't plan on it happening now. The thing that's keeping his laughter this side of hysterical is that Julian's warm blood is all over his hands, so much warmer than the frigid seawater he's soaked in. 

"I'm gonna kill Quark when we get out of here. I'm gonna wring his little Ferengi neck... I'm gonna put him in here and watch him drown in a bloody ocean." 

"We need to find a way tocontact the bridge," Bashir mutters, while splaying his hands over O'Brien's in an attempt to keep his blood inside his body where it belongs. He hisses, and relocates his hands. There's a three inch hunk of shrapnel sticking out of his side, just under his left ribs, and he wouldn't let O'Brien remove it when they finally got him into the dingy. 

"I know, Julian, but I'm nowhere near a radio right now, and my hands are busy, wouldn't you say? We also need to hurry the bloody hell up with this rowing, mates!" O'Brien shouts. The four other men in the vessel grunt their acknowledgement, but the nearest rescue boat (one with a red cross on it, thank God) is still nearly 200 yards away. 

There hasn't been an explosion of any sort in over ten minutes, and they're all jumpy. Several bodies float by, and O'Brien is uncomfortably drawn into his own head for a moment, as the cold and the sea and the stench of fires over water and metal drag him into a very different war. 

Julian coughs, jarring O'Brien into the present. Blood flecks his lips, and he has the audacity to look annoyed by it. "Damn. Well, that can't be h-helped n--" He coughs again. The other soldiers in the vessel turn, watching him struggle to breathe with hollow eyes. O'Brien kept pressing on the gash in Julian's side, drawing him into a more upright position so the splashing waves wouldn't drown him accidentally. 

"You can't even get heroically wounded properly, eh? Nothing glamorous and easy for ol' Julian Bashir!" O'Brien keeps a lock on Bashir's greying face, desperate to keep his warm brown eyes open as long as he can. 

"At least you've got the classic head wound, Chief," Bashir gestures to it's position on O'Brien's temple, and his brow furrows. "It's actually bleeding quite a lot, you ought to get it looked at--" He moves a trembling hand from the wad of jacket at his side to O'Brien's head, and touches his temple. "You've probably got a concussion, are you feeling well?" O'Brien has noticed that his face is sticky, but thought it was just the seawater drying on his wind-chapped face. 

"I'm fine, Julian." O'Brien smacks his hand away. 

"P-pardon me for trying to help, I am a doctor, after all, and you're my friend, and why shouldn't I try to help?" Julian's eyes twinkle, and O'Brien fights the urge to push him out of the bloody dingy and be done with it all. 

"You're not a doctor in here, Julian, you're a swashbuckling airman, and a right terrible one! You went and got yourself shot down in the middle of saving a bloody evacuation." 

"What does that make you, then, Miles? A terrible submariner, that's what. A disgrace to Her Majesty, you are." Bashir chuckles, but it's caught in a cough. The coughing must have jarred the ragged bit of shrapnel, and Julian clenches his eyes shut and the muscles in his neck and jaw tense. O'Brien stops laughing along, and just keeps the jacket against Julian's chest. 

O'Brien realizes he must be peering too closely at Bashir, because Julian makes a face when he reopens his eyes. Bashir resumes the task of keeping pressure on his wound, leaving O'Brien to fiddle with the commbadges and tricorder, trying to boost the signal. He rinses his hands quickly in the ocean before tapping the tricorder's screen, not keen to get anyone's blood on the glass. 

“You know, this really isn’t what I had in mind when I bought the program,” Julian mutters. “Who wants to be shot down and actually wounded, to be in actual danger? Good god, who wants bits of a plane’s hull jammed into their pleural cavity?” 

“Julian, you’re going to be fine. Plus, it’s not really that big. You’re probably exaggerating.” O’Brien feels Julian’s weight against his shoulder increase, and he pats the doctor’s leg reassuringly. “ I always knew you’d be a rubbish patient.” 

“Excuse me, Chief--” Julian starts, but O’Brien cuts him off. He sees the anxiety rising in Julian’s eyes, in his rising shoulders, his defensive jaw twitch.  
“You’ll be fine.” Julian meets O’Brien’s eyes, and gives a terse nod.  
Someone from the stern shouts "We've made it!" and the ladder from the hospital ship is dropped into their dingy, and a tying rope is tossed in, and O'Brien hurriedly connects the vessels with numb aching hands, as Julian sways at his side. Two of the men from the dingy have managed to climb aboard already, and have begun lowering a stretcher, and the sensation of relief is so strong, so overwhelming, so warming, that for a moment, O'Brien grins back at Julian, who returns a weary chuckle. 

Then boat catches on a particularly violent wave, and the resulting drop and splash knocks them all akimbo. 

O'Brien calls for Julian as he stands up again, entirely too disoriented. His head has begun to ache, and some sort of nausea has taken hold, but he shoves it aside because, "Julian!" 

Bashir is sitting upright, at least, sat in the bottom of the dingy, shaking, clutching the jacket against his chest. 

"You'll be alright--" O'Brien hauls Bashir to his feet, painfully noting his decreasing strength and Julian's gasp through gritted teeth. Amidst the rolling waves, the other two soldiers have clambered up the rope, and it's now just them, and there's another plane overhead, and a distant explosion, and the frantic human voices from the hospital ship are louder, the activity hastened, and there are several people screaming down at them to get a move on, there are other hardier men to rescue. 

The stretcher hasn't been lost, and he helps Bashir onto the soaked canvas. Bashir curls in on himself, keeping weak pressure on his midsection, all limbs trembling from the desperate damp cold. 

“Nghh-- Chief, listen, you need to get to the radio room, let them take me to surgery, maybe they can help. But you--”  
His words are cut off as he’s pulled aboard first, and there’s some hustling to get him oriented as the stretcher-bearers haul him through the thick crowd.  
O’Brien pulls himself aboard shortly after, and pushes through the crowd of soaking, screaming, exhausted soldiers to catch up to the stretcher as it’s taken belowdecks. 

“Sorry-- sorry--” He nearly trips over a boy who’s being tended to by a friend, as they press new gauze against where there used to be an eye socket, and O’Brien swallows the bile rising in his throat. He’s going to kill that trader for this. 

"He needs attention, now!" O'Brien follows Bashir's stretcher belowdecks where there's a chaotic mess of bloodied, dying men in what’s been converted into an immediate care ward. A pair of nurses rush to Julian, helping the soldiers bearing his litter to set him on an empty tabletop. 

Julian throws a hand over his eyes, body tense as a wire as the nurses begin to examine him. They cut open his uniform, keeping careful watch on the piece of shrapnel. One touches the side of his face, soothing, and Julian leans into it. The other nurse begins cleaning the wound with a pitcher of water and cloth. O'Brien pulls out his tricorder and his combadge, sinking into a corner trying to remain unobtrusive as he watches a doctor crowd in on the nurses attending Bashir. 

"This shrapnel isn't in a fantastic spot, lad," the doctor says, touching the piece and the area around it. "You're lucky it wasn't removed; someone knew what they were doing." 

Bashir hisses when they start disinfecting the area around the shrapnel, but takes a second to lock eyes with O'Brien, who rolls his eyes, as if this isn't a life-threatening situation they're about to solve with practically medieval medicine. "I've got a bit of experience, but it's--" Julian's explanations are cut off as he begins coughing again. The nurse, a weary young thing, finishes painting iodine around the wound, and brushes the shrapnel by mistake, drawing a surprised gasp from Bashir. Looking apologetic, the nurse provides an injection, and O'Brien watches as Julian relaxes slightly, but isn't rendered unconscious. "I need more sedative than that, it's difficult to put me under, please!" His wide eyes grow wider, and he looks to O’Brien in distress. 

"It will kick in shortly, not to worry, lad." The nurse puts a hand on Julian's forehead before checking on a few other patients. Another nurse covers him with a blanket, and Julian's eyes cloud, but remain open. A nurse in menswear stumbles through the crowded room with plasma, starting the line in the crook of Julian's elbow. He winces and turns to face O'Brien, just as O'Brien establishes a stronger connection to a frequency used by the bridge for communication. They lock eyes again, and O'Brien pushes through the nurses. He waves his tricorder, showing Julian the screen. 

"I've got the connection-- I just need to get to the radio room. I'll be right back. You'll be alright." O'Brien hesitates, but grabs Bashir's hand in his own for just a moment. 

"What if they're not finished by then?" 

"What do you mean?" The doctor isn't anywhere to be found, but the nurse is still prepping for surgery, including fiddling with an ether mask. O'Brien suddenly understands, and his stomach clenches. He squeezes Bashir's hand. "Oh. Well. Don't worry about that. We'll just beam you to the infirmary. You'll be fine." 

Bashir gestures towards the door leading of the crowded surgical unit. "Get us out of here." The drugs are definitely starting to take hold; his face relaxes, and his hand goes limp in O'Brien's grasp. 

O'Brien pauses to watch as the doctor comes back and they pull up a curtain; he muscles his way through the crowded room, following the signs to the radio room. His head aches, and the dull roar of hospital chaos is beginning to ring in his ears, and he realizes this concussion will knock him out sooner rather than later. 

No one really stops him; everyone is busy getting the ship moving again, getting food into the boys who aren't badly wounded, and getting out of French waters. He makes it into a small service corridor before he sinks to his knees, the dizziness overwhelming him for longer than he wanted. The tricorder is beeping-- he's got it wired to monitor Bashir's combadge, along with submarine activity so he'll know what's going on below. Right now, O'Brien has no clue why it's beeping, but he doesn't care. His face is hot, his feet are numb, and right now the cool metal of the ship walls feel luxurious on his overheated skin. Everything blackens. 

*** 

"Mate-- oy, you alright? Hey!" 

O'Brien opens his eyes, and groans when sitting up brings a dull aching throb straight to his temples. He's still holding his tricorder, but the young, hollow-eyed soldier in front of him has a nurse not far behind. "I'm fine-- 's nothing." He pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall. Jesus. "M'head--" 

"Your head looks terrible, no offense." The kid uses his body to try to block O'Brien as he staggers towards the stairs leading to the radio room, but O'Brien isn't a half-starved hologram, and barrels through. "You need help, sir!" 

"I'll get it myself." O'Brien stuffs the tricorder in his driest pocket and clambers up the ladder. He needs the signal boost to get to the bridge. Julian needs his help to get out of this holo-nightmare. They wanted to play war, not... not this. And maybe that's a remark on how they casually regard old battles, like they're an adventure, not something visceral and real and horrific. Keiko will murder him if he dies in here. Keiko will murder him if he lets Julian die in here. 

The radio room has a few people in it, ladies too busy establishing connections with other ships and trying to continue the evacuation to notice O'Brien much. He pulls open a panel, and punches in the frequency the tricorder is emitting, connecting the two. He grabs a headset, and shouts into it. "This is Chief O'Brien! Dr. Bashir and I are stuck in holosuite four! If anyone can hear me, please beam us directly to the infirmary!" 

He left Julian's combadge tucked into his trousers pocket, which the nurses hadn't removed before taking him in for surgery, so hopefully they're still on or near his person. He'll be fine. He'll be okay. O'Brien waits for the beam out. 

It doesn't happen. 

"Bloody--" There's something jamming the signal he's using. It could be an enemy submarine, it could be the holodeck frequency, it could be anything. He's going to have to use something else. It could be that the bridge's frequency is protected now due to the Dominion's increasing power. It's probably that. 

O'Brien swears violently; after all, he's the one who programmed the damn thing. He begins to reconfigure the signal, which is time he didn't need to spend. His head throbs, and every new thought comes slower than before. He can tell there's something wrong, that he's not operating at full capacity, that he's slowing down. Passing out in the hall didn't help matters at all. And Julian's still probably in surgery, if nothing went wrong. And this is mid-20th century holo-medicine-- anything could go wrong. And it might not last outside the holodeck, at all. 

And then he finds the signal he needs. It's an open communication signal, he remembers vaguely. The un-encrypted channel used for casual messages home and elsewhere by the habitat ring. 

"This is Chief O'Brien! I am stuck in holodeck four with Dr Julian Bashir! We need an emergency beam-out directly to the infirmary!" He's not even embarrassed anymore. He just wants a hot bath, some soup, and to have Keiko scold him from the comfort of their apartment. 

There's some crackling over the line, and he hears Jadzia Dax's voice over the headphones. "Chief? What happened?" 

"I'll explain later. Bashir needs the infirmary." 

"Aye, Chief-- we'll get you out soon. Hang on." 

O'Brien waits. Two minutes pass, and he stands, just to make the beam out easier. The correspondents in the radio room have finally begun to notice him. Two senior officers stand, and make their way through the crowded room when a blast rocks the ship. O'Brien manages to catch himself on the radio panel. He overhears several of the women requesting information. Torpedo. 

The ship noticeably keels to one side, and his dizziness and vertigo increase. "Dammit, Dax, where's that transport?" 

"Sorry, Chief, we're having difficulty with the connection--we're gonna have to force shut the program down. As soon as you get outside the holosuite, we'll beam you from there!" 

"Good enough." 

"Alright, shut down in three seconds--two seconds--one--" The program dissolves in front of his eyes. The familiar grid structure replaces the cramped ship, and there's silence, finally. 

Not four feet in front of O'Brien is Julian, lying on the bottom of an olive hospital bunk, attached to a small intravenous drip. Oh, no. O'Brien runs over, and blessedly, there are bandages round the doctor's midsection, and crude sutures beneath them. They'll hold him together until they exit the holodeck, but by then they'll be in the infirmary. He'll be fine. It'll be fine. 

"C'mon, Julian." O'Brien pats his face as he hauls him into a sitting position. "Julian-- Julian, wake up, the program is over!" 

"Hmphrgh?" Bashir opens his eyes, blinking blearily, gasping when sutures are pulled as he moves slightly. "Oh-- this is morphine. Interesting!" He holds out a hand, clenching it slowly, then gently touching the bandages over his wound. "Oh, this is unpleasant." The IV line ends in the crook of his elbow. He pulls gently at the cloth tape keeping the needle in place, and removes the needle, as well. 

There’s a bit of blood; O’Brien fishes out a still-damp handkerchief from a jacket pocket and presses it over the spot. Julian looks rather disgusted by the thing, but they tie it around his arm without much fuss.

"Let's go. You need the infirmary." O'Brien helps Bashir to stand, bearing the brunt of the doctor's weight when his long legs give out. "C'mon, doctor." 

They stumble across the holosuite, Julian getting heavier with every step. O'Brien fights a rising tide of nausea as he adjusts to solid ground and his aching head. "Christ, this is a war story, eh?" O'Brien chuckles at Julian's dramatic sigh. "Oh, come on, Julian. This is the most ridiculous adventure we have ever been on, and it's a bloody broken holoadventure. You're gonna be telling this story to the next person you seduce at the bar, mark my words." 

"I will not." Julian looks offended, but he breaks out into a grin after a few more careening steps towards freedom. "I really might. Oh, won't they love to hear this one! We almost died, Chief! In World War Two! How dashing. How daring, how--" Julian makes a small, choked sound. He presses his hand to the fading bandages; bright blood drips from between his fingers. "Oh." 

"Julian!" They've made it outside the holosuite, and they're on the walkway above the bar, and Julian has fallen to his knees, shaking, pressing his hands into the clean surgical lacerations in his abdomen. "Dammit, Julian." 

"I didn't very well know this was going to happen. I'm not an expert in holo-permanence!" Julian swallows heavily, peering at the mess under his fingers. "Damn." He tilts his head upwards, watching O'Brien sway as he thinks about crouching to help Julian. "Miles?" 

O'Brien's hand slips from Julian's shoulder, and suddenly he's also at Julian's level. They're both swaying. Someone approaches—a blurry, tall shape in science blues and a dark ponytail. 

Everything sort of swims in front of his eyes, and he closes them for a minute. Just a minute. 

And then they're kneeling on the floor of the infirmary, and the nurses are there, pulling Julian out of his arms, and someone asks him soft questions, and he answers, and there's a hypo at his neck, and he gladly rushes to greet the sweet chemical sleep. 

*** 

O'Brien wakes up, and it's evening. The cluttered sounds of the station are muffled, and there's a softer quality to the air. He's in the infirmary, and his head doesn't hurt. He sits up, and blinks slowly. His head rushes, and he can feel a sort of muffled pressure behind his eyes, but no pain. Thank Christ. 

"Hey, Miles." 

"Keiko?" He cranes his neck, and there she is, covered in a blanket, holding his hand. Behind her he sees a bed, and a mess of dark curly hair floating on a pillow. "Why're you here?" 

"Because you're an idiot, Miles, and I love you. And because you dragged one of our favorite people along with you." She stands and kisses his forehead. "You had a nasty concussion, and they're keeping you overnight for observation." Long fingers tangle themselves in his curls, and he reaches a hand to catch hers. "Julian had started to bleed internally, and was in shock. They're keeping him for a couple days, at least." 

"He'll try to be back to work tomorrow, mind you." O'Brien chuckles. Bashir makes a small noise in his sleep, shuffling slightly. 

"He'd better not. Nurse Aelik said they'd sedate him for as long as it was necessary, and it didn't look like they were joking." Keiko lowers her voice to just above a whisper. 

"Is Molly with a babysitter? Is she okay?" 

"Yes, Miles, of course she's safe. She's with Kira. Who, by the way, also thinks you're an idiot." 

"Well. It wasn't meant to get dangerous, you know." 

"Maybe next time, don't rent an untested holoadventure from Quark, though." 

“Yeah. I’m gonna wring his neck.” 

“Whose neck are we wringing?” Julian lifts his head, and blinks at the O’Briens with bleary eyes. “Is it Quark’s? Oh, say it’s Quark’s!” 

“Him, and that damn trader.” 

“Yeah. That guy… that guy has a lot to explain for.” Julian frowns, and rephrases. “A lot to explain-- words are hard.” He moves to sit up, and Keiko rushes to press him back down again. 

“Julian, go back to sleep. You’ve been given a cocktail of drugs that would knock out a Klingon. It’s a miracle you can even form words at all right now.” Keiko takes his hand. “We love you, but try to sleep again.” 

“Mmm.” Bashir closes his eyes. “Tell Miles I said thanks.” 

“He says you’re welcome,” O’Brien replies softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
